Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 62

Axel’s POV

The summons arrive through official channels, which is never good.

Mr. Nielsen, your presence is requested at league headquarters on Tuesday, October 15th, to discuss matters pertaining to your personal conduct and its potential impact on league operations.

Personal conduct. The polite way of saying we have opinions about your sex life.

I show the letter to Selene first. She reads it twice, face carefully neutral.

"They can't actually do anything," she says. "You haven't violated any league policies."

"They can make my life very uncomfortable without violating policies." I take the letter back, studying it like it might reveal hidden meanings. "Morality clauses. Image provisions. The vague language that lets them pressure players for anything they don't like."

"What are you going to do?"

"Go. Listen. Refuse to apologize for my family."

Tuesday arrives too quickly. The league headquarters is a gleaming tower in Manhattan—all glass and chrome and corporate intimidation. I take the elevator to the fourteenth floor feeling like I'm ascending to a trial rather than a meeting.

Three people wait in the conference room. Commissioner Hayes, whom I've met at charity events. Sarah Chen from the league's public relations division. And a lawyer whose name I don't catch, there to make everything feel more official and threatening.

"Mr. Nielsen." Hayes gestures to a chair. "Thank you for coming."

"I wasn't aware I had a choice."

A flicker of something in his expression. Annoyance, maybe. I'm not being appropriately deferential. Good.

"Let me be direct," Hayes says. "The league has received numerous inquiries regarding your... living situation. Media coverage of the Drummond lawsuit has raised questions about the image we project to fans, sponsors, and the broader public."

"What questions specifically?"

Sarah Chen slides a folder across the table. Inside: printouts of articles, social media posts, sponsor communications. A timeline of coverage starting with the TMZ leak and continuing through the court victory.

"Several sponsors have expressed concern," she says. "Family-oriented brands in particular. They're questioning whether association with players in non-traditional relationships aligns with their values."

"Non-traditional." I let the word sit. "You mean polyamorous."

"We're not here to judge your personal choices, Mr. Nielsen." Hayes's tone suggests otherwise. "We're here to discuss the practical implications. The league has worked hard to build a family-friendly brand. When players make choices that complicate that brand—"

"I haven't made any choices that affect my performance on the court. My statistics speak for themselves."

"This isn't about statistics."

"Then what is it about?" I lean forward, keeping my voice controlled even as frustration builds. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're suggesting I should change my personal life to make sponsors more comfortable. And I'm trying to understand how that's any of your business."

The lawyer clears his throat. "Your contract contains standard morality provisions—"

"Which I haven't violated. Living with two consenting adults and raising children together isn't immoral. It's just different from what you're used to." I meet each of their eyes in turn.

"I'm not cheating. I'm not using drugs. I'm not gambling or breaking laws or doing anything that harms anyone. I'm in a committed relationship with two people I love, raising three children in a stable home. If that's immoral to you, that says more about your values than mine."

Silence. They exchange glances—the kind that communicate entire conversations without words.

"We're not asking you to change anything," Hayes says finally. "We're asking you to be mindful of public statements. To avoid drawing unnecessary attention to aspects of your personal life that might prove... distracting."

"You want me to hide."

"We want you to be discreet."

"I've been discreet. I've never given interviews about my relationship. I've never posted about my family on social media. The only reason any of this became public is because my partner's ex-fiancé launched a harassment campaign against us." I hold his gaze. "You're punishing me for being a victim."

"No one's being punished—"

"Then why am I here?" The question cuts through his denial. "Why am I sitting in this room justifying my family to people who have no right to an opinion about it? If my performance was suffering, if I'd done something actually wrong, I'd understand. But I've had my best season ever while dealing with a lawsuit, a media circus, and now this."

Hayes shifts uncomfortably. Sarah Chen is studying her folder like it contains the secrets of the universe. The lawyer seems to be reconsidering his career choices.

"We hear your frustration," Hayes says. "And we appreciate your professionalism throughout this difficult period. But the league has to consider the bigger picture. Other players, other teams, the overall perception—"

"The overall perception is that the league will cave to conservative pressure instead of supporting its players." I stand. "I'm not hiding my family. I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. And if that costs me sponsorships or popularity or whatever metric you're worried about—that's a price I'm willing to pay."

"Mr. Nielsen—"

"Are we done here?"

They're not done. They have more talking points, more concerns, more carefully worded suggestions that amount to the same thing: be less visible, be less honest, be less yourself. But I've stopped listening. I've heard enough.

I walk out of the conference room, into the elevator, out of the building. Manhattan swirls around me—pedestrians, traffic, the relentless energy of a city that doesn't care about one athlete's problems. I find a bench in a small park and call Mateo.

"How'd it go?" he asks.

"They want me to hide. To be 'discreet.'" I spit the word. "To stop making sponsors uncomfortable with my non-traditional lifestyle."

"Fuck that."

"That was essentially my response."

"What happens now?"

"I don't know. They didn't threaten anything specific. Just... pressure. The implication that things could get difficult if I don't cooperate."

"Things are already difficult. Have been for months." I hear him sigh. "Axel, whatever you decide—we support you. If you need to pull back publicly to protect your career, we understand."

"I'm not pulling back. I'm not ashamed of us."

"I know. But I also know how much basketball means to you. If this threatens that—"

"Then it threatens it." The certainty settles in my chest. "I've spent my whole life chasing approval. From my father. From coaches. From everyone who had an opinion about what I should be. And you know what? I'm tired. I'm tired of performing for people who will never be satisfied."

Mateo's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "When did you become the emotionally articulate one?"

"I learned from you."

"That's terrifying."

I almost laugh. "Get Selene. Make dinner. I'll be home in a few hours. We'll figure out next steps together."

"Together. Yeah." A pause. "Love you."

"Love you too."

The flight back to Seattle gives me time to think. About the league's concerns and my refusal to address them. About the potential consequences—lost sponsorships, diminished standing, the kind of quiet blacklisting that never gets announced but everyone knows about.

My father would tell me to be strategic. To protect my career above all else. To compartmentalize, to compromise, to play the game.

But my father's voice is quieter these days. Drowned out by other voices. Mateo's warmth. Selene's steadiness. The chorus of small sounds that fill our house—baby laughter and domestic chaos and the constant evidence that I chose something real over something safe.

The league can have their concerns.

I'll have my family.

And if they make me choose between the two, they might not like my answer.